


Pieces

by phantisma



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post series finale, Xander thinks about everything he's lost while waiting for a plane to take him to Cleveland to fulfill a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere in my head I am convinced Xander lost an arm along the way, maybe in the final battle. Yes, I realize this isn't canon.

It was hard to watch the news anymore, especially when he knew they wouldn’t ever show the truth, when he knew that the truth was something no one would ever believe, no one sane anyway.

_Which, of course, paints him in all the pretty colors of crazy, because he knows, he believes…he was there for the whole thing, saw it, survived it, can’t ever tell the tale of it._

He couldn’t look at them either…the people, the dazed expressions, the vacant stares…the survivors…the ones who ran, the ones who turned from the darkness and left a handful of children to face it down…the ones who pretended the news made sense, and the pretty lies were real… _the ones who gossip behind raised hands about the people he knows are dead and gone._

Of course, they don’t look at him either. They whisper, they point and pull their kids away, but they never really look. They know he’s one of the few who stayed to the end, one of the few how stood against it. They know, and pretend they know nothing. _But, its okay, because he doesn’t look either. He sits and waits. He’s said his goodbyes. He’s made his choices. He may not like them, but they’re done._

 

The airport is emptier now, with no flights until after the sun comes up again. It suits him fine. _More space to sit in, more emptiness that echoed the empty inside, more quiet he could never sleep in while he waited for the flight he didn’t want to take._

It seemed strange to stare out the window and see a city staring back at him. It wasn’t that long ago he had watched his city die, disappear into the ground, never to rise again.

God rest Sunnydale.

The stabbing phantom pain staked through the not-hand that would never again actually feel it, making what was left of his arm spasm. He made a face that was less than manly and cradled the arm against his chest and tried to avoid the wave of bitterness that swept over him.

Sunnydale was gone. _And, really, good riddance,_ as far as he was concerned. It was gone, but it had taken pieces of him with it, pieces he would never get back.

Sure, some were barely noticeable; the little gouge of flesh from his knee lost on the elementary school playground when Steven Chapman had pushed him out of the way to get the last swing; the tonsils that he’d had removed in the fifth grade, which everyone said was fairly normal, but he’d never been completely convinced that doctor wasn’t an alien; the tip of his left pinkie finger that he lost in the metal shop incident freshman year.

And, that was all before the nightmares came to life, before Buffy Summers and her dark, crazy, upside down world engulfed him. Sunnydale had hacked away at the Slayer, and any who dared to stand with her. In the years that followed he’d lost more than pieces of flesh, he’d lost pieces of himself.

Jesse was the first. He had barely begun to believe that vampires were real and not the shared delusion of the pretty new girl and the strange British Librarian when Jesse drove the point home. _How many friends can you watch turn to dust before you realize that you will never be whole again?_

The skin around his eye patch itched and he rubbed at it. The world outside the window was dark and dots of light that seemed to taunt him, hinting at a life he would never have, even now…a life where vampires and demons are stories you tell around campfires and nightmares vanish when the lights come on.

Pieces. Some of them he gave away. He’d cut his heart into little pieces and given it away. He fell hard and fast when Buffy came into his life. He’d given that piece away with ease, as if it were nothing. It hadn’t mattered that she didn’t love him the same way… _well, it mattered, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance…but it didn’t keep him from thinking about it, didn’t keep him from trying_ ….and, okay, sure, the feelings had changed and grown over the years…but those first few years, Angel was one lucky vampire.

And, if he dared to admit it, Willow had to be pretty crushed over the whole thing too, _and damn if that didn’t hurt right now on top of it all_ , even with both eyes he’d been blind. That piece cut deep, the what-if…

The bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes, late night ER visits and inventing excuses to cover the latest round of injuries, missed classes, and blood stained clothes…which of course brought him to his parents.

He shifted uncomfortably on the seat and reached for his coffee. He hadn’t slept in days, no more than an hour or two here or there, and couldn’t start now, he didn’t think he could stand the nightmares.

It’s not like he and his parents were on the best of terms before Buffy came, but he changed when he learned the truth about the dark outside his bedroom window. There were times he was sure they knew, suspected maybe, and they hid in the alcohol and the fighting to keep it from being real. He felt guilty, pity…he didn’t even know if they had gotten out of Sunnydale before…hadn’t spoken to them since the not-wedding.

And that, led him to Anya.

He swallowed cold airport coffee and made a face at his reflection in the window. The taste was familiar, but cold and bitter and less pleasant than he remembered.

Anya was another piece Sunnydale had finally claimed. He was responsible for her being there, for her dying there, for the pain and the heartache. It was his betrayal of Cordelia that had brought Anya to Sunnydale in the first place. A vengeance demon summoned by Cordelia’s rage, and trapped in Sunnydale as a mortal woman when she came up against a wish she couldn’t actually control.

She had latched on to him, and he’d let her, even before he knew the whole story. _What is it with the demon-women magnet?_ It wasn’t love at first, it was a date to take to prom, a way to not be alone…then one day he’d realized he loved her… _and now she was gone…and he was alone._

Sure, he’d survived, minus a hand, and an eye…bits and pieces of himself gone…but everyone had lost something…someone… _Ms. Calendar, Joyce, Tara, Anya…even Spike…mothers, lovers, friends…whatever Spike was…_

He sighed and stood up to stretch. The televisions around the waiting area were no longer on endless repeat of images of the crater that had been Sunnydale, or the faces of the survivors, or the rambling idiots they wanted to call experts. Some infomercial for pimple cream had taken their place, just as the daydreams took over when the nightmares faded.

Dawn was still a few hours off, and his flight a few more beyond that. He was the last to leave. They’d all scattered, now that it was over…the hellmouth closed for good. Buffy and Dawn, Giles and Andrew, Kennedy and Willow…rest, vacation, starting over. He originally only wanted to just go away and drink until he could forget…but money was tight and there was no way to forget when the scenes replayed on his eyelid whenever he closed his eye.

_Not to mention the promise._

He felt the presence and sighed. A quick glance at the window proved no help, no reflection. His hand slipped into his jacket forgetting that he’d tossed the stake to get through security.

“Xander? I thought that was you.”

He turned, surprised to recognize the voice….the familiar slouch, hands in his pockets, head cocked to the side, half smile on his pale face, green goo coating his jacket lapel. “Angel.” He nodded tightly, watching Angel’s eyes dance over his obvious injuries. “What are you doing here?”

“Nest of demons needed evicting from one of the maintenance closets in the next terminal.” He stepped a little closer, glancing out the window. “I saw you sitting here.”

They were quiet for a minute, and when he looked up, he found Angel looking at him, meeting his eye and holding it. No one had done that since he’d lost the eye. He swallowed. “You look like hell.” Angel said with a smirk.

“Feel like it too,” he replied. He ran his hand through his hair and adjusted the eye patch.

“Where you headed?”

“Cleveland.”

“Why Cleveland?”

He shrugged and turned his gaze away. “Something I have to do.” He didn’t want to tell Angel about the promise he made to a tiny little Slayer, about the way she had died, about the little sister she had left behind or the necklace in his pocket.

“What then?”

Again he shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe London with Giles. Watchers, you know?”

Angel nodded. For a long moment they stood, staring out the window at the runway lights. Then Angel touched him, a hand on his shoulder…that shoulder…the one no one touched anymore. “There’s room for you here, if you want.” 

He swallowed around a sudden feeling of grief. _How do I know what I want?_ He couldn’t talk, couldn’t see for the tears in his eye. He turned his head so Angel wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything, just stood there, one hand on his shoulder. It felt oddly comforting. “Thanks,” he finally said, his voice thick and snuffly and deeper than he thought it should sound.

Angel looked at him again, making sure to catch his eye. “I mean it, Xander. Maybe it would do you some good.” He pulled out a card and put it in his hand. “Anytime, day or night. I’ll come get you.”

He nodded, looking down at the card, then back up at the vampire who he’d put up with and fought with and had even tried to kill. “Why?” He tried to keep the bitter edge of his voice, but didn’t entirely succeed.

“You look like you could use a friend.” Angel’s hands went back to his pockets and he rocked a little on his heels. “Or six.”

Angel gestured with his head and he turned to find a motley group arrayed behind him. He recognized Wesley, mostly, and Gunn and Fred from Willow’s descriptions of them. There was a green demon in a leisure suit and a teenage boy with them, all of them sporting more of the green goo that decorated Angel’s jacket. Almost in unison they waved, all but the boy who just raised his chin in greeting.

“I have to go, sun will be up before long, and we have a bit of a drive.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He didn’t really know what to say, or how to feel.

Angel smiled, a real smile, and clapped his shoulder, then sauntered off toward the others. He looked down at the card in his hand, with the stylized angel and the “We help the helpless” motto stamped in blue ink. Somehow it made the ache inside him a little less ache-like. _Almost like Angel had given him something to fill the hole where the pieces had all fallen out._

The red of blaze of morning stretched across the dark of the sky, splitting the night and sending the nightmares scurrying into the shadowy corners to hide. All around him the airport was coming to life. The smell of coffee and the sounds of rolling luggage and PA systems getting turned on…the television news lead story was about a train derailment in Boise…Alexander Harris gathered the remaining pieces of himself and put the card in his pocket before shouldering his duffle bag and moving toward the security check point. 

Maybe he wasn’t whole anymore, maybe he hadn’t been in a long time…but just maybe he could fill in the gaps…just maybe there were pieces that would fit out there somewhere…


End file.
